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dnickels · 4 months ago

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John Irving Poem Playlist

I love the hype around Davechella and wanted to do something a little different- a mixtape of poems, with commentary (desperate self-justification) and bonus poems below the cut

The Lamb, William Blake

The Pilgrim, Sophie Jewett

Self-Dependence, Matthew Arnold

The Light of Stars, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Wanderer, Unknown, trans. Roy M. Liuzza

Up-Hill, Christina Rosetti

Sir Galahad, Alfred Tennyson

II.

They Could Not Tell Me Who Should Be My Lord, Edwin Muir

God gave a Loaf to every Bird, Emily Dickinson

Ancient Text, Louise Glück

I Find no Peace, Thomas Wyatt

A Secret Told, Emily Dickinson

Mary Magdalen, James Elroy Flecker

Because I Liked You Better, AE Housman

III.

A Better Resurrection, Christina Rossetti

The Temptation of Saint Anthony, Rainer Maria Rilke, trans. Leonard Cottrell OR trans. Len Krisak

Batter my heart, three-personed God, John Donne

At Least to Pray, Is Left, Is Left, Emily Dickinson

'Thou art indeed just, Lord, if I contend", Gerard Manley Hopkins

The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, (LXXXIV- LXXXVI) trans. Edward FitzGerald

I Shall Know why- when Time is over, Emily Dickinson

IV.

Sudden Hymn in Winter, Joseph Fasano

Fable and Decade, Louise Glück

Love (III), George Herbert

Of Molluscs, Mary Sarton

Dark Night of Soul, Juan de la Cruz, trans. E Allison Peers

He Touched Me, So I Live to Know, Emily Dickinson

The Finder Found, Edwin Muir

The Plate, Anthony Hecht

Prospice, Robert Browning

Pietà, Rainer Maria Rilke, trans. Jessie Lemont

DEATH THE COPPERPLATE PRINTER, Anthony Hecht

The Gold Lily, Louise Glück

Futility, Wilfred Owen

Flock, Billy Collins

"What, no Wild Geese?" spiritually Wild Geese is here, tucked in section IV, which might a well be subtitled "The soft animal gets a treat", same with Song of Songs and so many psalms I couldn't pick one. I wanted to try to play with poems that were either new to me or a little further off the beaten track (although there are still some obvious picks but come on was I not going to get some Donne in there?). Frankly, this entire list could have been Emily Dickinson start to finish, it's not yet accepted historical fact that she was an inexplicable psychic witness to the sufferings of the Franklin Expedition but I am submitting my findings to journals as we speak

(sorry Jirv for all the Catholics and extremely suspect Anglicans!!)

I. SEEKING

Whenever I invoke "The Lamb" please know I am reading it with the same menace and sense of foreboding as Patti Smith. Given the vibe I'm trying to cultivate you'd think there would be more Blake, but I think Jirv has such a profoundly different experience with Church Authority and his own conversion experience that he and Blake hardly seem like they share the same faith. Even in a scenario where he managed to unclench, I can't see him espousing a sentiment like The Garden of Love. Maybe if he survived to reflect on his encounter with Koveyook he might groove more with "[Christ] is the only God ... and so am I and so are you."

The only section that has at least a few poets I think Jirv would actually read, namely Matthew Arnold-- the only poem on here that I think isn't very good, I'm sorry to Mr. Arnold but there we are, they were right to light your ass up in Punch. He's here however because I think his work captures a very clear and immediately accessible sense of the early Victorian man striving to be himself, in the sense that he can flower fully into the model of upstanding sober bourgeois middle-class manhood which isn't always attainable for later birth-order sons in a navy overcrowded with officers. The real life Irving's letters touched me very much in that he is both looking for a deeper connection with God, a better version for himself, and in the material world, a way to make enough money to establish himself as capital-R Respectable in a way that swashbuckling at sea or derring-do in the colonies doesn't really allow him. I actually don't know if the years line up for him to have read Longfellow but this stanza:

O fear not in a world like this, And thou shalt know erelong, Know how sublime a thing it is To suffer and be strong.

Is such a classic mid 19th century "making yourself miserable for ideological reasons" motto. Shades of "Invictus" (which for some reason I don't know if Jirv would vibe with, maybe more of a Crozier poem).

I think you could also call the first section "Voyages", I was struck by how often the real Irving was compelled to relocated to try and make a place for himself in the world in the literal, material sense, and the few letters we have are largely his thoughts on his spiritual seeking-- I was very surprised not to find a settled and secured ticket-to-Heaven holder but someone who still considers himself a student, is still wrestling and grasping and looking for something.

Prithee, Pilgrim, go not hence; Clear thy brow, and white thy hand, What shouldst thou with penitence? Wherefore seek to Holy Land? Stern the whisper on his lip: Sin and shame are in my scrip.

It feels a little much to say 'Jirv is the Galahad of their doomed Grail quest' but frankly, given that no one succeeds, I kind of like the idea of a failed Galahad. It's slightly ahistorical to invoke but once we get into the 1860s and the mid-Victorian chivalric revival Galahad becomes a potent symbol for a kind of chaste imperial knighthood in service to God/Queen/Country. At least one young office who died in WWI was named Galahad, not just a PG Wodehouse joke christening.

II. CRISIS

Obviously there are ten thousand things that could torment the evangelical protestant mind and bedevil one's self-worth and it doesn't have to be "hopelessly in love with your best friend" but I wasn't going to miss a chance for some Housman, was i? Wyatt gives us the money couplet:

I desire to perish, and yet I ask health. I love another, and thus I hate myself.

I had included Flecker's We That Were Friends but felt it was just slightly too self-aware, ditto Rosetti's Winter: My Secret.

III. STRIFE

I think these are all pretty self-explanatory. I could have added ten more Emily Dickinson poems because she is the only one on this earth who gets it (me, the deal, the whole of existence). Hopkins I think is more concerned with the sins of the world than the real life Irving (who, based on the very limited material shared, must be the most laid-back and chill evangelical in human history? Or maybe I spent too long among the Baptists) but I can see Jirv wondering, in the God-proof bunker of his diary, why the wicked are flourishing while he is losing his everloving mind and threatening to lock up ABs for being afraid of ghosts.

Here is the excerpted Khayyam so you don't have to go looking (although you should because its wall to wall bangers) (context: the narrator is standing in a potter's shed, and listening to the vessels talk amongst themselves)

LXXXIV. Said one among them— "Surely not in vain My substance of the common Earth was ta'en And to this Figure molded, to be broke, Or trampled back to shapeless Earth again." LXXXV. Then said a Second—"Ne'er a peevish Boy Would break the Bowl from which he drank in joy; And He that with his hand the Vessel made Will surely not in after Wrath destroy." LXXXVI. After a momentary silence spake Some Vessel of a more ungainly Make; "They sneer at me for leaning all awry: What! did the Hand then of the Potter shake?"

"Did you make me just to smash me, God?"

Runners-up for this section included Rossetti's The Three Enemies, which only didn't make the cut because I think its slightly uneven compared to the rest of this work and this list has become pretty Rossetti-heavy. Ditto De Profundis.

IV. ACCEPTANCE

Also pretty self-explanatory. Mystical union with Christ or a very special sergeant of the marines, or both! Is it canon? No! But I like to think that even just one time...

If you read any poem on this list please read 'Love (III)' and 'The Finder Found', the latter of which is my 'Wild Geese'. It seems self-serving to say I cried when I read it but I did. Meanwhile Herbert is goated and his entire work could be listed here but hearing Love (III) read aloud made me understand what poems could do.

I cheated putting two Glück poems for one but given that they were published together in that magazine I think its ok. Here's even more cheating: The Undertaking would be in there if I could squeeze it on the same line. "The darkness lifts, imagine, in your lifetime" PLEASE

Runners-up here were Larkin's First Sight, which just doesn't quite fit but I love for the sense of spring coming to someone who doesn't know there's anything other than winter deprivation, and A Shropshire Lad XI (On your midnight pallet lying) which I LOVE but again doesn't quite jive with the theme, but I do imagine it as a bridge poem between this section and the last...

V. DOOM

A little bit of Browning, who might squeak in under the line of plausibility (though perhaps not this poem) as Jirv sets out on the death march with waning faith that is not, in fact, a death march but then his journey ends in Stabtown, population: YOU. "The Plate" in this case would be that faith and knowledge of being loved that remains even after hardship and the final lost battle, maybe even literally in the meat from his stomach. But misery and death put all the men on the rack and instead of salvation they are essentially tortured to death, often long enough to crush/squeeze out any semblance of humanity and leaving the animal capacity for violence.

"Futility" could encompass the whole sorry venture but in specific the shot of Jirv's body after all the effort to make contact with someone would could help. Was it for this? "Exposure" also a strong contender for "the long slow process of freezing to death for unclear reasons".

"Flock" of course-- God needs martyrs.

#I'm not pretentious enough to call it an anthology but I suppose technically....#anyways. I've been collecting poems since October and this seems like the idea circumstance to set this post free #john irving #davechella #yes its long. eat your vegetables.#there could be more of everything really #more Rilke #ten thousand times more Dickinson #the terror

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thereareeyesinsidethetrees · 3 months ago

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@unearthlyfromage ae thought you might be interested in the paragraphs about dark cacao

so far, each of the ancient's awakened forms are titled after notable traits of the actual cookie, and not their souljam. these traits also parallel their beast counterparts

pure vanilla holds the light of truth, but his awakened form is titled after his immense kindness, compassion, and care. shadow milk, on the other hand, is outright sadistic. he does not care about anyone around him (except maybe pure vanilla, because his distress is fun to him). pure vanilla's title is straightforward: compassionate

golden cheese holds the light of abundance, but her awakened form is named after her determination to protect her kingdom. burning spice sees no value in kingdoms because, to him, they just rise and fall and turn to dust in the end. that's why he gets bored, why he starts destroying, and why he doesn't care a bit about anyone around him. they will all be destroyed in the end, so what's their worth? why delay the inevitable? golden cheese, on the other hand, almost seems to care more about her kingdom than actual abundance. she doesn't really grow it much over time (though she's more than happy to let others in) and she doesn't leave her digital kingdom at all, long enough for several generations to go by without her waking up. when she found her kingdom destroyed, she created an entire virtual kingdom where they can all be happy and wealthy and be whatever they want. she literally rebuilds from dust. she resurrects crumbled remains of residents. ae cannot think of any other character that has done that, except maybe the dark cacao warriors returning from flour. that is why she gets the title of 'immortal'. preserving her treasures is more important to her than gaining new ones, to the point that she does things ae'm not sure any other cookie could do just to ensure her kingdom lasts

dark cacao holds the light of resolution, but ultimately it is his speech to the dragons that results in his victory. hence, dragon lord. ae think there's a symbolic meaning to this too: he is a very conflicted character, especially when it comes to dark choco. he is extremely protective of his sword; no one has ever been able to wrench it from his hands, and he will cut you down if you dare try. he kept his sword in a hidden location, in a room dedicated to honoring fallen warriors

^ what are we trying to say here? dark cacao has two eternally dueling dragons sealed inside an object he keeps close to his chest, that he hides from others, that he refuses to let anyone else get close to. bottled up and internalized conflict and suffering that comes out when interacting with mystic flour. he makes a speech to the dragons (finally faces these unresolved feelings) and they return to aid him, no longer trapped within the sword. they are still conflicted- but they consider it a draw. neither wins, they just have to coexist. he returns with his dragons riding on his shoulders, now more accepting of his inner conflict and turning it into something to make him stronger. not hiding anymore

the flour could also play into this- his kingdom comes down with an ailment that uh. let's just say makes them spout some stuff we heavily relate to as a chronically depressed being. when he arrives at beast-yeast, his closest companions begin to think this way too, and disappear. his beast has pushed all of his loved ones (because let's be real, they are loved ones) away from him, out of his grasp, not coming back no matter how much he begs. they only return after he defeats mystic flour. the ailment is gone, his citizens make note of the dragons, and he laughs for the first time. he has reached enlightenment. he is no longer pushing everyone away. instead, he stands as a figure to look up to for his citizens: he battled the beast and tamed his dragons. it's something for them to look up to, to find their inner determination. after all, why not tame your dragons, too?

do you like how this post started small and ended with three separate paragraphs about one guy. gods help us if we're even a little interested in the remaining two beasts' stories (we are, we want silent salt so bad. please let one of the beasts be enby, please, we are begging. please. ideally we would enjoy both of them being enby, but we will be okay with one, plEASE. she/him eternal sugar and they/them silent salt c'mon)

#spoiler #spoilers #cookie run kingdom spoiler #cookie run kingdom spoilers #cookie run kingdom #pure vanilla cookie #golden cheese cookie #dark cacao cookie

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whimsimille · 1 year ago

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PSHYCHOCHROMIA

Seo Moonjo (Patient) x Reader! (Doctor)

Chapter 1: Hues of grief

"Motherhood is owning a second heart that beats outside your own body. It's joy, yet sorrow," mused Grandma Anastasia Song, a poetess with a first name as American as the apple pie from the small bakery down the lane and a surname as Korean as the homemade kimchi fermenting in the earthenware pots in her backyard.

She held Ae-ra close to her flaccid chest, completely absorbed in the pixelated murmurings of an old video from three weeks ago—a precious moment captured right inside the delivery room named "Ae-Ra's Grand Entrance!"

Though the image was shaky and Min Ju had, thankfully, skillfully avoided anything too anatomical, Anastasia saw your sweat-slick hair sticking to your forehead, heard your desperate cry, "I am doing it!" when one of the nurses urged you to push, and noticed a few droplets of blood on the surgical cloth—not many, but enough to create what her mother would have described as a "beautiful spectacle." Naturally, in English.

“A second heart, huh?” Sneering, you felt the spring in the tattered velvet armchair dig into your thighs while you watched as she moved in her rocker to become more at ease. With the hand she wasn't using to hold your daughter, she took another bite out of the freshly baked cookies that were cooling on the side table.

Gooey filling seeped down her chin and the delicate crust crumbled under her teeth and spattered in Ae-ra’s blanket as she rocked both of them—it tasted exactly how Mrs. Johnson's made them back home. Some tastes never really left her mouth or heart, even if she has been absent from America for decades.

“Yes, it is. A child means another heart. It expands to make room for all that love. And when they leave, well, it shatters a little too." She mused between bites. In the already hardened fabric of her sweater, there were small crusts of biscuit glued by saliva.

Once the recorder hummed to a stop and the grainy footage ended for the fifth time, you crouched in front of the vintage TV, fingers trembling slightly as you took out the video tape, taking care not to disturb the old thing.

“So, yes, you must be ready, dear. Your second heart is bound to stop beating very soon.”

Your breath stopped.

What?

Suddenly, the quaint house, with its worn-out red bricks and peeling white paint, felt too quiet, too still. The cheerful chirping of the sparrows nesting in the ancient birch tree outside, the rustling of the leaves in the wind that carried with it the scent of blooming azaleas, the distant laughter of children playing in the park down the cobblestone path—everything was drowned out by the deafening silence in the room.

Swiveling around, you observed Anastasia cradling Ae-ra, running her thumb, sticky with the remnants of the chocolate-covered cookie, over the tiny lines of your daughter's palm as if she were a cartographer mapping territories on a yellowing parchment. It was unsettling how calm she remained while predicting such a dreadful fate for her great-granddaughter.

"What happened, Halmoney? Is something wrong with Ae-ra?"

"No, no, nothing like that," Grandma reassured you. "It's just... time. Life is fleeting, my dear. It's like the wind blowing through a field of wheat: constant movement but soon gone before we know it."

Ae-ra cooed softly in her great grandmother's arms, blissfully unaware of the weight pressing down on your heart. She kicked her little legs playfully and batted at the lacy edge of her baby blanket, giggling when it swirled around her face like a cloud.

You watched as Anastasia smiled tenderly at her, wrinkles crinkling softly around her eyes, before they focused on the bright autumn leaves rustling outside. "Your grandpa is waiting for her in the afterlife now," she said quietly, "and soon she must join him."

Dumbstruck, you stood there, words failing you. Your mouth opened and closed in a futile attempt to voice your disbelief, much like a fish gasping for air on dry land. Your stupor was broken only when you felt the front of your blouse getting damp. Excess milk seeped through the fabric, making you look like a dairy cow in the middle of milking.

It was past time to feed your baby.

"For heaven's sake, don't say such things, Halmoney!” You exclaimed, clenching your chest in an attempt to stem the flow. Jesus, that was fucking painful.

Anastasia simply chuckled at your reaction, her wrinkled face crinkling even more at the corners. "You're as stubborn as your father, my dear. Always quick to deny what you don't want to hear. Just like that time when he refused to believe his favorite tree in the backyard had to be cut down. But truth, my dear, is like an ocean. It's vast, endless, and you cannot simply fence it off."

Then she turned her attention back to Ae-ra, her expression softening. "Now, come on, take Ae-ra and feed her. Unless you want your breasts to swell up like balloons. Believe me, you won't get to do this for longer.”

Inspired by the Sisters of the Harvest Moon, a group of women who, like the ancient Druids, found divinity in the waning of the moon and natural cycles, Anastasia's eccentric beliefs had their origins. They believed that mirrors were doorsway to fucking entire dimensions and that a child who looked too long into an old Venetian mirror would be blessed—or ill-starred, depending—with dreams of the future. The Sisters left an imprint on your grandmother 's life, seeping into her from 10 and extending well into her Doc Martens-clad teenage years until 18. They wore ropes on their belts—to beat, not to measure—and they never saw a child's ear in their way that they didn't want to twist.

Perhaps that’s why you didn't let out the primal scream building in your chest at that moment, your almond-shaped eyes wide as saucers. Because, in the end, her childhood was made out of convoluted beliefs and harsh discipline, and she wasn't predicting the death of your Ae-ra out of some perverse pleasure. In the end, she wasn’t trying to make you lose your grip on sanity; leap across the room and yank out the collection of vintage hair pins—an assortment of pieces from the 1950s, studded with tiny pearls—that were failing to control the silver curls haloing around her head in a style that would've made Einstein proud.

In the end, the old woman was fucking right.

It was June, the third year without your baby, and you were throwing up in a bed of hyacinths as if trying to expel the grief lodged deep within you.

You only knew they were hyacinths because Mom had some planted in your garden back in Jeju, and for days she talked about how the landscapers from the local 'Kim's Gardening Services' put them in lopsided. You didn't know flowers could be lopsided. That's what you thought about as you sat there in the dirt, staring dizzy at the flowers, wet and blue and bright.

Outside Westlake Psychiatric Ward, an iron and gray monolith with no dreams or aspirations, the hyacinths had been planted.

It was located in the oldest part of Gonjiam Hospital. The original Victorian-style brick building had long been surrounded and swallowed by larger and generally uglier extensions and annexes. "The Caged Mind Asylum" was at the heart of this complex. The only indication of the dangerous nature of the occupants was the row of security cameras perched on the fences like vigilant birds of prey.

At the reception, every effort was made to make everything seem quite friendly: ample blue sofas, rustic and childlike paintings and drawings of the patients hung on the walls. It looked more like a garden to you than a forensic psychiatric hospital for jailed people whose families had abandoned them because they could not afford the hefty cost of adult diaper changes and the fact that, besides being criminals, they were out of their minds.

It's strange how quickly we adapt to the frightening world of a psychiatric hospital. We become increasingly comfortable with madness—not just the madness of others, but our own. You believe that we are all mad, just in different ways.

And that's why—and how—this place was more than just a place—it was a job. You, Song Y/N, with your PhD from Seoul National University and your internship at Massachusetts General Hospital, were supposed to be inside. You were meant to be standing tall and confident in front of the imposing white doors on your well-tailored scrubs. Instead, you were outside, staring at a puddle of puke and trying to catch your breath. And the sky was falling—wet, wet and blue and bright.

Soon enough, your husband, or what was left of him, would come looking for you to ask how your day has been with his usual pathetic monotone, and you'd have to summon a convincing smile. You'd avoid telling him that your day has been merely a puddle of clear water mixed with remnants of your breakfast—crunchy slices of apples from Mrs. Lee's fruit stall and homemade kimchi. Then, you'd steer his attention to something mundane, something safe—like the weather or the incessantly leaky faucet in the kitchen that the local plumber promised to fix since last Tuesday.

There are many reasons why you ran out of that place for crazy people like you, but here's the overarching one. The only one that really matters.

Ae-ra.

How can a tiny four-year-old, with a presence so radiant and a laugh that echoed like a cathedral bell, be gone so soon and be silenced so abruptly?

It's been three years. Three years of questioning, of doubting.

There is no reply from Him. Never. Not even a whisper in the wind nor a hint in the rustling leaves. The Almighty remains silent, devoid of answers. Every time you have screamed, raged at the sky, your voice echoing against the hard concrete of the city buildings, there is only silence returned. You call out names like "God," "Jehovah," and "Yahweh," clutching your rosary beads bought from the small gift shop adjoining St. Peter's Basilica during your honeymoon in Rome.

Every night, under the vast expanse of the inky sky, you wrestle with the notion of divinity. Your fists clenched, your knuckles white, the metal of your wedding ring biting into your skin.

What you remember most about those early years was the sheer physicality of it all. Small fingers on the cheek. A belly on a hip. Legs climbing onto the lap. A hand slipping silently into your own. And all this amid the haze of sleeplessness. It was Min Ju who slept badly, but Ae-ra had her moments. And for what seemed like months, mornings would shock you awake, finding the three of you sprawled across the sheets like battered objects washed up on the shore. Yet there was such joy in that physicality. Bodies entwined. Pressed up against each other. Safe.

No amount of medication or counseling at the esteemed Johns Hopkins can satisfy the void that exists right now.

Shit, you’re not even a romantic; you never have been. Poetry and grand gestures are not things you believe in. But this... this is a different kind of story. A story of love that no heart can forget. Not when it loves somebody that way, and not when it still beats for them even when they are no longer around.

And so, you live quietly, one day at a time, with a scar that no amount of time can heal—a wound that is always fresh. But that's fine because you've lived through entire disasters in silence, you know how to create silence. It's like this: turn on the radio very loudly, then suddenly turn it off. And so it captures the silence. Starry silence. The silence of the moon changes. For everything, you created silence. It is in silence that the noise is heard more. Between the hammerings, you heard the silence of your grief and your blood pumping through your arteries.

Because, in the end, isn't that what survival is all about?

“Doctor?”

Since your childhood, Mom has often told you about your peculiar habit of associating colors with feelings, people and events—a trait that you had passed onto your daughter. Both of you stood out like sore thumbs in the conventional world.

Ae-ra had been the subject of many parent-teacher meetings and counseling sessions. However, you never felt the need to consult a doctor, as you knew it was an inherent trait, not a disease that could be cured with pills. Maybe the influence of Anastasia and The Sisters had seeped into both of your lives more than you realized.

For both of you, everything had a distinct color. It wasn't simply about the physical appearance, like a tree being brown and green. No, it was more profound than that. If a flower was dying, then its color would be a sickly gray. If a bird was bound to die, its red feathers would be spotted with black. If a person was brimming with happiness, the fingertips they used to cover their mouths would radiate a bright, sunny yellow.

At the moment, as strange as it might sound to others, the voice that called out to you reminded you of the creaky floorboards that groaned under your father's weight as he entered the house after a hard day. Blue on the porch, but within the brick walls: red, the same shade as the dinner table cloth that often became more interesting than meeting your family's gaze.

It was a voice that jolted you back to reality and made you turn your head with a sense of urgency, away from the flowers and the vomit. It was a voice that belonged to Nurse Jungwoo.

Blue was stitched to the courteous tilt of his head when he greeted the other nurses and staff, the soft-spoken words he used to comfort manic patients, and the gentle touch of his hands while administering medication. But you had observed a shift in him sometimes, particularly when he'd watch people engage in heated squabbles over dumplings left on the lunch tray or when he had to bathe former soldiers haunted by the ghosts of their pasts—his normally calm demeanor would turn a burning red, his eyes narrowing and lips pressing into a tight line as he fought against the men’s screams and pushes.

The transformation led you to ponder if one day you might see these white labyrinthine corridors stained with the purple hue of his frustration, or if you might stand at the end of a confessional room and see his purple fingers wrapped around a gun, pulling the trigger without hesitation. Just like your father had done.

"Are you okay, Dr. Song?" Yoon's voice held an awkward concern. His usual shy smile, the one that reminded you of a child peeking out from behind their mother's skirt, was replaced by a worried frown. "You've been sitting there for a while now. Can I get you some water? Or maybe a cup of chamomile tea from the cafeteria? It's surprisingly good, you know. They just got a new brand— Twinings, I think it's called. Very soothing."

After glancing at his outstretched hand, its end slightly stained with the pale blue ink from the Bic Cristal ballpoint pen he preferred for taking notes, you looked at his face and then at your heels, partly covered in grass and dirt.

Politely rejecting his offer of assistance as well as his worried smile, you got up, dusting the dirt off your coat. His concern was touching, but unnecessary. You gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder to let him know that you were grateful, though.

Fishing a battered packet of Marlboro cigarettes from your pocket, you realized you'd been more than a week without smoking—you had sworn to yourself that this time you were quitting for good. But, hey, here you were, faltering already.

You lit one, irritated with yourself. Any therapist worth their salt would see smoking as an unresolved dependency—something that should've been dealt with and overcome long ago.

"You sure I don't have another patient to attend to now?"

Grass crunched beneath your heels as you shifted your weight, the vomit now concealed beneath a layer of disturbed soil.

With an arched brow, you watched as Jungwoo curled into himself, his hands disappearing into the pocket of his pale green scrubs. You knew why. Your gaze was a soft, heavy paw on him. But if the paw was soft, it took it all away, like that of a cat that hurriedly grabbed a mouse's tail. The drop of sweat went down through his nose and beautiful mouth, dividing his smile in half. Just that: without an expression, under your mascara coated eyelashes, you were looking at him.

"So…" You leaned against the wall, the cold bricks biting into your back. Your lab coat rode up slightly, exposing a sliver of skin above your waistband. You noticed Jungwoo's eyes flick down, then quickly back up, a faint blush coloring his cheeks.

"Oh… Yes, yes!" Jungwoo responded, bouncing on the balls of his feet, one hand still tucked behind his back. His other hand came up to rub the back of his neck, a nervous tic you'd observed before. "I apologize, Dr. Song. You do indeed have a new patient, though I don't believe it's one you will be particularly eager to attend to."

Your lips curled up in a humorless smile as you took another puff of your cigarette. "I'm never eager to attend to criminals, Jong. So, who's the unlucky soul that has the pleasure of my company next?"

“Officer Hwa brought this one from the maximum-security jail downtown. The one in barbed wire and manned by guards that look like they eat nails for breakfast?" Yoon attempted humor, but it fell flat, and his eyes flickered with regret.

“And?”

“Well... It's… Seo Moonjo.”

Psychopathy, in bygone times, was synonymous with the concept of "evil." Individuals who reveled in inflicting harm or death on others have been chronicled since the time Medea took up an axe against her own offspring, and likely even prior to that. In 1888, the same year Jack the Ripper held London in the grip of terror, a German psychiatrist coined the term "psychopath" from the German word psychopatische, literally translating to "suffering soul."

This clue—the idea of suffering—was your gateway into understanding that these monsters were also in anguish. Viewing them as victims rather than perpetrators enabled a more rational, compassionate approach in your dealings. Psychopathy or sadism didn't just spring into existence from nothingness. They were not viruses, randomly infecting someone out of the blue. They bore a history, a prelude rooted in childhood.

Your belief was that experiences such as bruising knees from running in the backyard or losing a tooth soon to be claimed by the Tooth Fairy, were reactive. This means that to truly empathize with another human being, we ourselves must first be shown empathy—most importantly, by our parents or caregivers.

And Moonjo? Seo Moonjo seemed the type of man that naive young girls would send love letters to, sealed with their cheapest lipstick or a pair of lace panties. Because, despite his monstrous deeds, his square jawline, sharp features, and the way his tailored suits highlighted his lean physique rendered him attractive in the eyes of many.

Just yesterday, after returning home exhausted, brain pounding on your skull because Min Ju couldn't bring himself to sign the divorce papers, feet bloated, you watched in the news as women who had once trusted him with their children's dental care were now protesting in front of the prison. They claimed he was an angel, a helper sent by God.

But, hell no. Moonjo was no angel. He was a beast, a wolf in sheep's clothing, concealing his true nature behind the pristine white of his doctor's coat. His dental procedures were carried out with a precision that was unnerving. Seo Moonjo was a cannibal, a murderer, and a pyromaniac who eradicated his adoptive family in a spectacle of blood and fire.

Of course, you had dug deep into his case, folded the paper news, and pushed it in between the convenience store bench's slats. It was what your mother called a scandal sheet, full of the local murders he had committed and fake suicides and beatings and robbings, and just about every page about the deceased twins and that weird porn addicted man that lived with Moonjo in the Eden Studio had a half-naked lady on it with her breasts surging over the edge of her dress and her legs arranged so you could see to her stocking top or cats with their small, shiny guts exposed in trash bags.

From this extensive research, you suspected that there had been no one in his life—a caring grandmother, a favorite uncle, a benevolent neighbor, or a mindful teacher—to see his pain, to acknowledge it, and to help him process it. Anger, fear, and shame were too dangerous for the small child to deal with on his own. He didn't know how to deal with such emotions, so he didn't. Instead, he disowned these feelings; he didn't allow himself to experience them. He sacrificed his true self, along with all that unfelt pain and anger, to the Underworld, to the murky world of the unconscious.

This resulted in him losing touch with who he really was. The man, who was impeccably polite, genial, and charming, was provoked somehow. And the terrified child inside him lashed out in response, reaching for a knife and a lighter.

Moonjo could be a suffering soul.

Right?

Damn it. Just stop. You're already pushed to your limits, and you can't afford to shoulder his case either.

“Look, honey. I'm already swamped with other patients. It's just not feasible to add Seo Moonjo to my already overflowing plate. Can you imagine the added stress?" You mutter, eyes squinted shut, as you picture the growing pile of patient files on your desk. "Remember that Kwon guy? The one who had a schizophrenic episode and killed someone? Or that Kyung girl who defended herself against her rapist? Those were hard, sure. But Moonjo—he's on another level. He's someone who has committed a series of heinous acts and revels in them. This isn't like juggling a couple of extra appointments or adding a few more hours to my workday. This is like... like... stepping into a goddamn war zone without any armor!"

Suddenly, as you started to pace around the garden, an idea struck you. Your eyes snapped open, the cigarette almost fell from your lips and you swiftly turned to Jungwoo, who was watching you with wide eyes. "You remember that doctor, don't you? That one with the crooked nose?"

“Dr. Jung Hyun-Jae?”

“Yes, yes… Dr. Jung would be a more suitable choice for this case. He's been needing more challenging assignments, hasn’t he? It would be a perfect opportunity for him to sink his teeth into a complex case. Plus, it might distract him from his recent fixation with Nurse Ioona. She's been complaining about his constant attention. Where's Officer Hwa? I need to explain the situation to her and suggest Dr. Jung as an alternative.

Jungwoo’s eyes darted around nervously before he settled them on a pretty lavender (how ironic it was, right?) from the garden. He reached out for it and gently twirled the stem between his fingers. “Well… Officer Hwa left. She did want to speak with you and rambled about how you were the only one capable of handling Seo Moonjo, but… I noticed you sneaking out through the fire emergency door and figured you were trying to avoid any additional work or confrontations. So I went ahead and filled out Moonjo’s report. Your first meeting with him is scheduled for today. It's on your wall calendar, right under the post-it note about picking up milk and eggs.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, the news catching you off guard.

This son of a bitch. Motherfucker. Idiot.

You clenched your fists to stop the urge to transform him into a purple puddle of limbs for real now. He was still new, still learning the ropes. And there was a good intention behind his actions. So, instead of lashing out at him, you sighed heavily and crushed your cigarette beneath your heels. You were in for a long day.

"Alright. Just...alright. But I'll need to juggle my schedule around, shuffle some patients here and there. This is going to be like solving a Rubik's cube blindfolded.” You muttered, rubbing your temples with the base of your palms, the onset of a stress-induced headache making itself known.

“He's out on the patio. Chained to four officers and three nurses because he asserted his right to a smoke break. Should I fetch him while you change your coat and prepare yourself for the consultation?" Jungwoo asked, his gaze shifting from the crushed purple petals in his hand to your clothes.

Change?

Looking down, you noticed the stain of vomit on the fabric of your lab coat, a gift from your husband on your first day at work. It had your name, Dr. Song Y/N, stitched in an elegant script on the left pocket. Fuck. Fucking great!

“Please, honey. And bring me some black coffee if you can; make it extra strong. I hate tea, it reminds me of the cough syrup my mother used to force down my throat as a child," you replied to Nurse Yoon without even looking at him again. Blood had risen to your face, now so hot that you thought you were with your eyes injected, while he, probably in new deception, should think that you were colored because of the cold wind.

What type of image were you inside his bambi eyes? A grieving mother or an insolent doctor?

Let's spin the Lucky Wheel, shall we, Mrs. Song?

Jungwoo, ever the diligent worker and one not to mingle in your business, had the courtesy to look sheepish as he handed over a thick manila folder (one that you weren't sure you had seen him bringing with him) stamped with the words "CONFIDENTIAL: SEO MOONJO.".

"I will, of course. But, first, here's the case file, Dr. Song. I've highlighted the most important parts," he said, extending the massive file towards you as if it were a bomb about to explode. The folder was thicker than the latest edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, a psychiatric bible that you often referenced. Its contents, as you anticipated, were likely far more disturbing.

"Thank you, Yoon. I appreciate it," you sighed, taking the heavy folder from him. You opened it, your eyes scanning over the pages filled with police reports, psychiatric evaluations, and a collection of distressing photographs that made your stomach churn. All evidence of Moonjo's crimes.

"Also," Yoon continued, biting his lower lip in a nervous habit you were becoming all too familiar with, "I've arranged for some extra security during your consultation with him. Officer Hwa insisted, said it was non-negotiable. I hope that's alright."

You nodded, appreciating the concern, although you couldn't help but feel a pang of annoyance. The last thing you needed was more people watching and more eyes to witness your struggle to maintain control. But you understood—the higher-ups wanted to ensure no harm would come to their staff at the hands of a dangerous psychopath.

Or maybe they just didn't want another bloody body in this institution and lawsuits on their hands.

After a significant period spent working within the asylum, it became evident to you that even in a place of death, there existed a social hierarchy. In comparison to the general hospital wings, the accommodations located in the main building were significantly larger and more expensive. Suites were rooms named after well-known Seoulites that had once been in the psychiatric unit, home to one of Korea's most notorious sociopaths. The Bah Suah suite was where Seo Moonjo was staying. To get there, one had to navigate past the under-stair canteen, home to vending machines offering various food and drink options and hard plastic chairs.

What was most crucial, however, was shedding this ugly uniform.

Your office was located in the oldest, most decrepit part of the hospital. Spiderwebs clung to the corners, and several corridor light bulbs were burned out.

As soon as you turned the doorknob, the door creaked open. The first thing that prompted a slight smile was the smell inside. It was distinct from the rest of the hospital. It didn't reek of antiseptic or bleach; instead, it oddly reminded me of an art gallery. A blend of canvas, paints and brushes, varnish, and wax. It took a moment for your eyes to adjust to the dimness, revealing an unfinished artwork leaning against the wall—an unexpected object within a hospital. About twenty metal art shelves stood out in the shadows, and on a table, a pile of both your sketches and those of patients towered upwards—an unstable tower of paper reaching for the sky.

It had been a considerable amount of time since you had leaned over a canvas, staining your fingertips and the tip of your nose with hues of color. The inspiration simply wasn't there anymore. The paintings gradually lost their meaning. Even when Min Ju would sit in a chair and watch you work after a shift at the firm, nothing changed.

For years, even before your marriage, you enjoyed painting his face. Strong jawline, pronounced cheekbones, elegant nose—sitting under the spotlight—he resembled a statue. A hero. However, something was off nowadays, and you couldn't tell what. Perhaps you were forcing the issue. You couldn't capture the shape of his eyes or their color accurately. The first thing you noticed about your husband when you met was the sparkle in his eyes—like a tiny diamond embedded in each iris. But now, you couldn't capture it. Without corresponding to his entire face, the brown eyes were intraducible. As independent as if they were planted in the flesh of an arm, and from there they looked at you: open, wet.

It might be a lack of talent, or maybe Min possesses something more that doesn't translate into a painting anymore. It all came out lifeless every single time.

Well, maybe because that was what he had become for you: a dead entity, lifeless, a walking shadow that prefers clandestine meetings with the girl next door—Kim Ji-ah, the one who sold Dabang coffee from her little shop—rather than signing the divorce papers and emptying your house of his remnants. You yearned for him to take his collection of smelly socks, stained shirts—and god, those lipstick marks that were an egregious shade of red—and just leave. Useless.

Dropping the huge file somewhere in the mess and slipping into a fresh coat, you caught a glimpse of the note left by Jungwoo. Precisely where he promised it would be. Pinned to the wall calendar, right beneath the post-it note about the local grocery store—a place you could never bring yourself to enter, not without your gaze drifting towards the adjacent drug store, contemplating the prospect of acquiring an unhealthy amount of Paracetamol.

"Consultation 1. Seo Moonjo at 3 p.m." accompanied by a cartoonish drawing of a devil's face and a pitchfork in red marker—the kind of doodle one would expect from a schoolboy, not a professional nurse. You couldn't help but laugh at the irony of it.

Stepping out of your office, you felt the familiar cold air of the hospital corridors creep into your bones. The aged linoleum floor creaked under your weight as you made your way towards the Bah Suah suite. It was a walk you had done countless times, but with the impending consultation with Seo Moonjo, it felt different, heavier.

Navigating through the maze-like corridors, you passed by the under-stair canteen, which was buzzing with the sound of vending machines dispensing Lotte Choco Pies and cans of Chilsung Cider. Nurses and staff were huddled in corners, whispering about the latest hospital gossip over cups of instant coffee. Their eyes flickered towards you, hushed whispers growing quieter as you walked past them. You paid them no mind.

Just as you rounded the corner of the last hallway, you almost collided with Nurse Park Ji-Yeon, a recent graduate of Yonsei University's Nursing Program. Her arms were filled with a stainless steel tray laden with countless medication cups and water glasses and you noticed how her hands were stained lime green. Youthfulness, naivety and playfulness.

“Dr. Song, I didn't... I didn't expect to see you here," she stammered, her cheeks flushing a red that was reminiscent of the cherry blossoms that adorned the hospital grounds in the spring. You admired Ji-Yeon's work ethic and dedication; her timidity was often eclipsed by her eagerness to learn and assist patients. She was like a mirror image of your younger self, fresh-faced and pretty much graced with green.

"You need to watch where you're going, Ji-Yeon. Those are important medications you're holding," you advised her, bending down to pick up a bottle of pills that had rolled under a rusted hospital bed. Sertraline, prescribed to Mr. Kim in Song Joong Ki. You placed it back on her tray, ensuring it was secure.

"I will, Dr. Song. I apologize," she replied, bowing as charmingly as she could muster while equilibrating glasses of water. "I was just heading to administer afternoon medications to the patients in Ward C when… I heard about your consultation with Seo Moonjo," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, as if the mere mention of Moonjo's name would summon him. Her eyes flickered at the closed door where the meeting would happen. “Is it true that he...that he indulges in...cannibalism?"

Your fingers massage your temples, a dull ache throbbing behind your eyes. Great. The rumors about Moonjo were spreading rapidly in the hospital's atmosphere like a malignant tumor . "We shouldn't speculate about patients, Ji-Yeon. It's unprofessional and contrary to the Hippocratic Oath we took."

"But he's a monster, isn't he?"

"Every patient, regardless of their actions, is a human being first and foremost, Ji-Yeon. The term 'monster' has no place in the lexicon of a healthcare provider. It's our duty to provide care and treatment without judgment or prejudice."

You’re so hypocritical, Y/N.

"But what about the things he's done? The people he's hurt?"

"Even so," you retorted, "our job is to heal, not to pass judgment. Justice is the court's responsibility, not ours. We are here to ensure that he is physically healthy and to provide the medical aid he requires."

Before she could respond, you waved her off dismissively, effectively ending the conversation. "Now, get going. Those medications won't be administered themselves. And who knows, Seo Moonjo might be coming to look for his pills," you admonished, leaving the young woman standing alone in the corridor, her mouth agape in stunned silence.

Two minutes later, you arrived at the Bah Suah suite, the heavy metal door cold under your touch, signaling that the old AC was already running. Taking a deep breath, you steeled yourself for the consultation and pushed open the door, stepping into the room that soon would hold the man known as the 'Cannibal Dentist' of Seoul.

The therapy room was a small and narrow rectangle, as empty as a prison cell, or maybe even more so. The window, barred, remained closed. On the little table, a shocking pink box of Kleenex tissues stood in stark contrast with its cheerful color—it must have been left there by Mrs. Chen; you couldn't imagine Jungwoo offering tissues to the patients.

You sat in one of the two faded and battered Eames lounge chairs. Minutes passed. No sign of Moonjo. What if he didn't show up? Maybe he hadn't agreed to meet you yet; maybe he hadn't finished his pack of Marlboro. And he'd be totally within his rights.

Impatient, anxious, nervous, you gave up sitting and suddenly stood up and went to the window. You looked out through the bars of the grid. The yard was three floors below. The size of a tennis court, it was bounded by large exposed brick walls, too high to be climbed, although undoubtedly someone had already tried. Every afternoon, the patients were led there to get fresh air for half an hour, whether they wanted to or not, and in this cold weather, it would be understandable if they resisted. Some isolated themselves, talking to themselves, or walked back and forth like restless zombies, going nowhere. Others formed groups, chatting, smoking, arguing. Voices, shouts, strange excited laughter reached you.

At first, your eyes failed to pick him out. It was only after scanning over the throng of people that you spotted him - a tall figure, as pale as the moonlight, leaning nonchalantly against the brick wall of the patio. A predator perfectly at ease in the midst of his prey.

Jungwoo navigated his way through the crowd, making a beeline for him. He exchanged a few words with the nurse stationed closest to the infamous serial killer - a petite woman named Eun-ji with a heart-shaped face and a sharp bob cut that framed her face. She nodded, her eyes wide behind her rectangular glasses.

Yoon approached Moonjo with extreme caution much like a wary zookeeper approaching a particularly unpredictable animal. You knew exactly what he would say, you had rehearsed it with him other times. He would inform the towering man that you, the in-house therapist, had requested a meeting with him. He would emphasize that it was a request, not an order.

Moonjo remained as still as a statue as Jungwoo spoke, offering no indication of agreement or refusal. That was a good sign, you thought.

After a moment that felt like an eternity, Yoon Jungwoo turned on his heel and retreated, his hands buried in the pockets of his scrubs. A sinking feeling of defeat washed over you - he wasn't coming. You berated yourself internally for being so naive. This had been a colossal waste of time and energy, and you had missed your precious 30-minute power nap for this fiasco.

But just as you were on the brink of surrendering to your disappointment, to your utter surprise, Moonjo stirred. He took a step forward, following the retreating figures of the policemen and nurses across the courtyard until they were swallowed up by the hospital’s imposing structure.

So, he was coming after all. You cleaned your hands in your jeans and put your hands on your knees to stop your legs from bouncing. You tried to quieten the nagging voice in your head, the voice that sounded uncannily like your father, chastising you for not being good enough, calling you a fraud, asserting that a woman's place was in bed, awaiting her husband's return from work, naked and submissive.

Shut up, you thought, repeating it over and over: Shut up, shut up…

Two or three minutes later, there was a knock on the door.

"Come in," you called out.

As the door creaked open, the personification of the monstrous deeds you had meticulously studied in countless newspaper clippings and confidential case files stepped into the room. His imposing figure, garbed in the standard-issue uniform of the Westlake Psychiatric Ward—a drab ensemble of worn-out hues that could only aspire to be called beige—filled the doorway. His eyes, the first thing you notice, were a striking shade of obsidian and held an unsettling gleam as they flickered over the confines of the consultation room before settling on you.

Words precede and overtake you; they tempt you and change you, and if you're not careful, it will be too late. Things will be said without you having said them. Or, at least, it wasn't just that. Your entanglement comes from the fact that a carpet is made up of so many threads that it can't resign itself to following just one thread. Your entanglement comes from the fact that this story is made up of many stories. And not all of them can be told—a truer word could, from echo to echo, bring your high glaciers crashing down the gorge. So you will no longer speak of the drain that was in you while he was staring at your face. Otherwise, you will think about how headlines or news articles could never do justice to the presence he commanded. His skin was luminous, almost translucent—a canvas of alabaster with the occasional vein peeking through the surface, like coloured threads embedded in white marble. He was a statue that came to life.

Moonjo’s raven hair, unconventional in its length for a man, covered his nape and framed his forehead in an innocent way. His smile, filled with teeth, was clear of any obstructions, allowing you to glimpse the unique shape of his insanity—water and desert, populace and wilderness, abundance and need, fear and challenge. Moonjo has in himself the eloquence and the absurd mudness, the surprise and the antiquity, the refinement and the roughness. Moonjo is baroque.

Still, right now, he is the first thing in your whole life that you look at and see no ounce or mention of color.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Song.”

"Good."

You locked eyes with him, noting the spark of anticipation dancing in his gaze, before shifting your attention to the small assembly of officers and medical staff flanking him. Jungwoo is curling into himself while holding a paper bag from the cafeteria in his hand. This wouldn't do. Screw Officer Hwa and her requests; you wouldn't attend to someone while being vigilated like this.

Officer Park Seo-Jin, a woman as stern as the harshest Spartan matron, with her sharp, hawk-like features and a redish hair and attitude that brooked no nonsense, met your gaze. Adjacent to her stood Nurse Lee Min-Ho, a fresh addition to the hospital staff, nervously clutching a clipboard. He was a blue one.

Maintaining your gaze on Officer Park, you said in a firm voice, "Officer Park, I would like to conduct this consultation with Mr. Seo in privacy. You and your team may wait outside, perhaps in the waiting area. There's a coffee machine that makes a decent brew."

The officers exchanged surprised glances, clearly taken aback by your request. Officer Park's frown deepened, her lips forming a thin line as she locked eyes with you. "Dr. Song, with all due respect, I don't think that's a good idea. Given his history and Officer Hwa’s requests, it's better if we—"

"I understand your concerns, Officer Park, but I assure you, I can handle myself. I've been trained to do so. I believe Mr. Seo here can attest to that."

Moonjo tilted his head and smiled like the Cheshire cat as he noticed the thick file on the table behind you, eyes traveling over it greedily, like a grade-schooler staring at a chocolate fountain. He knows what lies inside. And he was fucking entertained. "She's right. I don't bite...unless provoked."

Officer Park looked like she was about to argue further as she shot a glare at Moonjo—a glare so icy it could rival the sub-zero temperatures of the Arctic tundra—but you held up a hand, stopping her.

"I appreciate your vigilance, but I've dealt with patients similar to Mr. Seo before. My training is extensive and comprehensive. I know what I'm doing. Please wait outside."

After a moment of silence, Officer Park reluctantly agreed, her gaze lingering on you with a mixture of concern and admiration. "Let’s go then, boys. Out we go, or Miss Cold here will chop our heads off," she grumbled, shuffling towards the door. She paused at the threshold, her hand on the knob, before turning back to look at you. "You call us the second he steps out of line, you hear?"

“Sure.”

Reluctantly, the officers and nurses filed out of the room and as the door closed behind them, Jungwoo handed you a cup of black coffee, brewed with beans from a local roaster. The mug was warm in your hands, the black liquid inside steaming and swirling. It was just as you liked it—strong and bitter.

"Thank you, Jungwoo," you said, accepting the coffee. "And...thank you for understanding."

With a nod and a faint, yellow smile, Jungwoo retreated. He cast a last glance at you and Moonjo, his brows furrowed in worry, before finally disappearing behind the door.

As the door closed behind Seo Moonjo with a dull thud for the second time, echoing through the empty therapy room, the canvases on the wall seemed to lean in curiously, like ghosts that had seen better days. He walked with a hunched gait, shoulders slightly rounded, hands clasped together behind his back—an unsettling calmness about him that chilled you to your very core. Now, just the two of you, the air felt colder than before he entered, like he brought along a personal blizzard that set your nerves on edge.

Slowly, he takes a seat across from you, his legs crossed at the knee elegantly, like an art model posing for a painting session. His hands were large, rugged and bruised with what looked like fresh scratches from tools or rope. It took all of your self-control not to recoil at the sight of them. He leaned forward slightly, folding those monstrous hands on the table between you, atop a worn-out copy of Freud's 'The Interpretation of Dreams', and locked eyes with yours - unblinking, unwavering.

A moment passed where neither of you moved or spoke. You could feel his eyes raking over your face, examining every line and shadow on your own. It was disconcerting how easily he made eye contact. You forced yourself to return it, resisting the urge to shield yourself with your pencil and notepad. You wished you could paint over this unnerving moment, transform it into a stunning piece of art, and hang it in the vibrant hallways of the Louvre rather than being trapped in this dreary room.

Therapy is not your forte; art is your passion. But here you are, trying to understand this man who's been called a monster by everyone outside these walls. Inside them too? Who knows? Maybe there's more to him than meets the eye... or maybe they're all just stories that should never be told in this place that reeks of silence and stares back at you like a judgmental wallflower no matter what you do or say next to Seo Moonjo right now.

"Well then, Mr. Seo. Shall we begin?"

“Of course, jagiya.”

#lee dongwook x fem! reader #lee dong wook x reader #imagine #lee dong wook #lee dongwook x reader #jeong jian #seo moonjo x reader #seo moonjo #hell is other people #strangers from hell #hot as hell #yoon jongwoo #min jieun

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star-of-zeus · 1 year ago

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Zeus Aethiops

For the people that come to my blog for the information, the actual post is in non-italics below (pls scroll down quick otherwise I'll look like a dork haha) For the people who have been following my blog for a longer period of time (and those fond of the dramatic) I set this scene:

You open your eyes to a sturdy oak table in the midst of a dimly room that smells of moisture, frankincense, and oakmoss. A deep blue satin cloth, about three feet long, lies upon the table, held down on either side by lit candelabras. The surface is bare otherwise. Pulled out a few feet behind the table is matching sturdy oak armchair with eagle head detailing on each of the armrests, and a royal purple satin cushion. Star-of-Zeus enters, wearing square glasses and holding a old and dusty-looking leather-bound tome that's thicker than their hands can hold stretched to their max, so Star chooses to hold it to their chest wrapped in their arms. Walking to the table, you watch them lean forward to set the heavy tome on the table with a solid, resounding thump before wiping the dust off their shirt and blowing the rest of the dust off of the tome before opening it up. [You, standing on the other side of the table, are subsequently covered in this dust and have to stand there looking like a bizarre snowman while listening] Finally, Star looks up through their glasses after settling in their chair and grins.

"My, my. It seems that it's been three years and two months since my last Zeus Epithets post. Finally ready for the next one?"

Zeus Aethiops is one of my absolute favorite epithets that I commonly venerate, and though this epithet comes rooted in a notion of race that looks nothing like our modern concept, I will take a stand (likely in another post so I can make a full breakdown/rant) against other opinions that I've seen that advise against blending the two (ancient and modern) notions of race when venerating such an epithet, but it will be written entirely from my perspective and experience, so be aware. But I digress - let's get back to learning about this epithet. Some translations I've seen include "of the Burnt Face" or "Ethiopian". Our beloved resource, theoi.com, defines this epithet of Zeus as:

AE′THIOPS (Aithiops), the Glowing or the Black. A surname of Zeus, under which he was worshipped in the island of Chios. (Lycophron, Cass. 537, with the note of Tzetzes.)

If we go to the theoi.com translation of Lycophron's Alexandra, 537, we find the line:

But we have one, yea one beyond our hope, for gracious champion, even the god Drymnius Promatheus Aethiops Gyrapsius, who, when they who are destined to suffer things dread and undesirable shall receive in their halls their fatal guest, the swooping robber, the wandering Orthanes...

The god referred to only by epithets in this line "Drymnius Promatheus Aethiops Gyrapsius" is indeed Zeus - the epithets Aethiops + Gyrapsius are cult-names from Chios, while Drymnius is from Pamphylia and Gyrapsius from Thurii.

So, now that we've established this epithet is from Chios, and attributed to Zeus, let's take a closer look at what the term Aethiops might signify. Merriam-Webster defines Aethiops as an alternate spelling of Ethiops, and defines Ethiops and simply meaning "Ethiopian" but the old Greek etymology of the word is a compound, according to Wikitionary --

From Proto-Hellenic*aitʰiyokʷs, explained since antiquity as αἴθω (aíthō, “I burn”) +‎ ὤψ (ṓps, “face”), though this is likely a folk etymology.

Thus, it wouldn't be outrageous at all to assume that this was a word used to refer to peoples with higher amounts of melanin, or generally those from the ancient region of Aethiopia, which was a geological term used to designate the "upper nile region of Sudan, south of the Sahara, and certain areas of Asia."

But yes, overall the opinion of scholars and historians is that the term 'Aethiops' could reasonably be associated with features that are associated with the Black or African people of today. As an American, I could go on long-winded talks about my experience worshipping a Justice god that is depicted as what I see as Black (not even to mind that I started following this path in 2020, during another round of BLM protests) but that's a topic for a more personal post instead of a research-based one. In the meantime, please look at one of my favorite pictures of Zeus from a Laconian cup, and if you look at me in my beautiful hazel eyes and tell me those aren't locs coming from Zeus's head I'm having Sisyphus crush you under his boulder.

Was Homer's Zeus Black?

Chios is a Greek island off the Western coast of Turkey, and I watched one video that also talks about Zeus Aethiops but makes the claim that Homer is from the island of Chios (which the author provides evidence for from the Homeric hymn to Apollo) and therefore the Zeus that Homer writes about in the Iliad and the Odyssey could be Black. In my personal opinion, they're playing very fast and loose with the Homeric Question, something scholars have been arguing over for centuries, but at the same time I very firmly believe in the mystery of history and the fact that it is incredibly important for people to see themselves in the deities or things they venerate, and at the very least it's great food for thought. The Homeric Question is outside the scope of this post, but I just wanted to share some other resources in case someone wants a longer more video-essay style post about Zeus Aethiops and that perspective on Homer.

But yes. That's all I have to say on Zeus Aethiops for now, but rest assured I will be shouting from the rooftops about him again soon. I'm so happy I finally did a post on one of my (probably top 5?) Zeus epithets, even though there isn't a lot to be found about this surname of his since I suppose it could have been considered minor in the ancient world.

As always, feel free to send in requests for other epithets!

#zeus worship #hellenic polytheism #hellenic paganism #hellenic pagan #hellenic polytheist #zeus #hellenism #pagan #theoi #zeus deity #zeus epithet

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youremyheaven · 2 years ago

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Jupiter Influence Among Korean Actors

Over the years, I have noticed a distinct pattern in the Korean entertainment industry, where most stars considered to be icons have strong Jupiter influence in their charts. Korean general public prefers celebs with a graceful and elegant image, who also have "duality" (they're cute but fierce) and Jupiter natives are endowed with these charms.

I had already mentioned female Kpop idols & Jupiter influence on a previous post, so, this post will focus mainly on Korean actors.

Song Hye Kyo is arguably the most successful Korean actress of all time. She has been in the top billing for over 20years at this point.

She has Hasta Moon (I had mentioned in another post about how Hasta women are revered for their femininity and grace), Uttarashada Ketu (UA gives one a glamorous image) and Vishaka Mercury Atmakaraka.

Atmakaraka is what signifies our soul's purpose, hers lies in the Jupiterean nak of Vishaka.

In fact, its very common for Korean actors to have their atmakaraka or amatyakaraka in a Jupiter nakshatra.

2. Park Minyoung has Venus in Purvabhadrapada as her atmakaraka

She rose to fame playing a young girl who disguises herself as a guy in order to attend school in ancient Korea. It is her family's dire circumstances that push her to attend school in order to find work. This whole drama is very Jupiter coded and the majority of the cast have strong Jupiter placements as well.

Her most popular drama is What's Wrong With Secretary Kim where she plays the secretary to a CEO who is almost inept without her micromanaging his life. I've noticed that many Jupiter women tend to be in this position where, in whatever relationship dynamic, others don't know what to do in her absence because she often single-handedly runs the whole place and makes it look easy and only in her absence do they realise that its far from easy.

3.Kim Ji-won is Punarvasu moon

One of her best known roles is that of Choi Ae-ra in Fight My Way, which I would say is a very typical Punarvasu character. Punarvasu's enthusiasm, almost childlike behaviour and charm can fit the description of a quintessential Asian romcom protagonist and Choi Ae-ra is a very good example of the same. Her rise from the bottom rung of the ladder to working hard to get where she is, is also a very Jupiterean tale (since Jupiter moon natives go through their Saturn mahadasha as young adults).

4.Kim Go-eun has Punarvasu mercury & ketu

Kim Go-eun's first ever starring role was as Eungyo in the movie of the same name.

It is the story of a teenage girl who becomes the object of desire for a 70yr old poet. The movie is very Punarvasu coded imo. In fact, regarding her casting, the novelist, whose book was adapted to the film, had this to say:

"She was perfect for the forever virgin and forever young image that Eun-gyo symbolizes."

This is literally the embodiment of Punarvasu energy which makes the native simultaneously sensual and innocent.

5. Gong Hyo Jin has Vishaka moon atmakaraka and mercury in Purvabhadrapada amatyakaraka

Her character in When the Camellia Blooms is very Jupiter coded. Jupiter energy can often be manifest as a kind of innocence and naivete and a tendency to be a goody two-shoes.

6.Shin Min-ah has Saturn in Vishaka as amatyakaraka

Her most well known role would be that of a doctor in Hometown Cha Cha Cha, in which she plays a person who refuses to compromise on her principles/ethics to get ahead in her career and has to end up leaving Seoul for a small town. This is again, very Jupiter coded because Jupiter influence makes natives very righteous and possess a strong sense of integrity.

7.Han So hee is Vishaka sun

She was recently in an MV for Jungkook's song 'Seven' which features a quarrelling couple. I've often noticed that with many famous Vishaka women, fighting with their partner, often publicly seems to become attached to their public image. This could also apply to their relationships becoming controversial in general. Miley Cyrus, Beyonce, Katy Perry, Lana Del Rey, Jennie etc all have their luminaries in Vishaka with the exception of Lana who has a Vishaka stellium and they've all had relationship drama that caught public attention in a major way.

The role that catapulted Han So Hee to fame was that of a married man's mistress in the drama The World of the Married👀

8. Jung So-min has Purvabhadrapada Sun & Venus (atmakaraka), Punarvasu Moon (amatyakaraka)

in Because This Is My First Life, she plays a broke writer who despite being a good daughter is not appreciated by her family at all, and despite being good at what she does, faces trouble in her workplace and is overall just going through a not so good time . As I've said before, Jupiter natives go through their Saturn Mahadasha as young adults and this phase is a difficult one where they have to work very very hard to get things done and make any kind of progress. Most K-dramas that focus on the adversities of life, as experienced by a 20 something probably has a Jupiter dominant native as its protagonist.

in general, the reason why Jupiter dominant men & women dominate Korean entertainment, be it music or dramas, is because of the kind of content that Korean entertainment focuses on and the kind of people that the Korean public chooses to support. K-Dramas are known for their complex plots, often focusing on people at conflict with their values and ideas, struggling with their conscience, facing life's challenges and overcoming adversity; class struggles, portrayal of wealth/lack of it, rising to the top, underdogs emerging as winners etc. These are inherently Jupiterean.

Even with Korean music, it has a unique system in place where idols have to "train" for several years before they make their debut. Being hardworking and being an "ace" who excels in several areas is prided on in Korea; in such a culture, it makes sense why Jupiter dominants emerge as the ones on the very top of the food chain.

Now, we'll talk about some male actors😋😌

Lee Minho has Mars in Punarvasu & Mercury in Punarvasu (his atmakaraka & amatyakaraka)

Honestly, his entire filmography is very Jupiter coded 🤣 The role that made him a household name was that of rich, spoilt heir to an immensely wealthy family who is the most popular guy in school and leader of his rat pack.

His most successful role is that of a King in the drama The King: Eternal Monarch which is about an ancient Korean emperor who time travels through a portal into modern-day Korea. Both the fact that he's playing nobility as well as the fact that the drama features time travel/alternate reality esque things makes it VERY Punarvasu coded.

(Punarvasu's element is ether and its deity Goddess Aditi is the Mother Goddess and creator the universe itself, many time travel/movies about the nature of reality feature Jupiter natives)

The drama co-stars Kim Go-Eun, who I have already mentioned above as a Punarvasu girlie🥰

2. Gong Yoo is Punarvasu sun (amatyakaraka)

He starred in the movie "Silenced" which was based on a horrifying true story where he plays a teacher at a school who tries to stand up for and protect differently abled children who are routinely subject to extremely cruel and abusive treatment at a boarding school.

Punarvasu natives are known for standing up for others, especially those who do not have a voice/who are unable to stand up for themselves. These natives have a strong sense of justice and empathy and do not think twice about questioning authority.

His character in Coffee Prince is one which made him a household name and in this drama, he plays a chaebol heir who falls for a young guy who is actually a woman disguising herself as a guy 💀I feel like Jupiter men have at least one movie/show in their filmography that is very queer coded (ex: Keanu Reeves, Punarvasu Moon with My Own Private Idaho)

His most well known character is that of Goblin in the drama of the same name, where he plays an immortal who seeks salvation. Very Punarvasu coded.

This is just a personal observation but I've noticed how many Punarvasu men have an androgynous vibe 🥵

3.Kim Woo Bin is Punarvasu sun (atmakaraka) and mercury

His breakout role was that of a wealthy chaebol heir in the drama, The Heirs.

Playing the CEO's son or the CEO, who is initially arrogant and then faces different trials and tribulations and ultimately redeems himself is a common Kdrama trope and I've noticed that the actors picked for these parts the most tend to be Jupiter-dominant.

4.Song Joong Ki has Vishaka moon & saturn (his atmakaraka)

Vishaka is a rakshasa gana nakshatra and I'd previously observed how many mafia movies feature rakshasa gana natives as the main leads. Joong-ki's Vincenzo sees him play a mafia lawyer.

His character is Arthdal Chronicles (featuring fellow Jupiter girlie, Kim Ji Won) is also very Jupiter coded. Its about the birth of civilization and life in the ancient world. Joong Ki plays the leader of his clan.

5.Park Seo Joon has Purvabhadrapada moon (his amatyakaraka)

He is one of those actors who plays himself in every show/movie he does. This means all his characters are charming, slightly awkward or a little dumb, but good natured and caring individuals who go above and beyond for others. This is like a quintessential Jupiter man trope.

Especially his character in Fight My Way, is VERY Jupiter coded and features fellow Jupiter native, Kim Ji-Won.

A slightly stupid but endearingly adorkable guy who works a low end job and trains to be a boxer whilst looking out for his friends and loved ones? Especially his whole side arc with his ex gf on the show is such a Jupiter guy thing; to forgive a woman and be there for her even though she never cared for him and only kept him around because he was sooo nice to her and did everything for her. I've seen this happen with many Jupiter guys because as Claire said in her video these are the nice guys who women keep in the friend zone because even though they're perfect and extremely courteous, women don't feel like they could be a serious partner.

His character in Itaewon Class explores Jupiter in a different way. He is a struggling businessman who is engaged in a long drawn out battle with a chaebol and finally emerges victorious in the end. Despite the chaebol's petty and below the belt tactics, Seo-joon's character always took the high road and held on to his principles and conducted himself with integrity. Jupiter natives are almost always destined to be the bigger person.

6.Park Bogum has Mercury in Punarvasu as his atmakaraka

He rose to fame for playing a motherless prodigy on Reply 1988. His character was a typical Jupiter one; he's very talented, successful and recognised for the same but he takes no pleasure in it and does not really indulge in the privileges it offers him.

His most famous role would be that of a Prince who falls in love with his eunuch (who is actually just a woman pretending to be a eunuch) in the drama Love in the Moonlight. Like I said before, Jupiter guys have at least one queer coded project in their filmography lol.

7.Park Hyung shik has Sun & Mars in Vishaka (his atmakaraka & amatyakaraka)

His most famous role is that of a CEO in the drama Strong Girl Bong Soon.

8.Yoo Ah In has Venus in Vishaka as his atmakaraka and Jupiter in Purvabhadrapada as his amatyakaraka

His character in the movie Burning represents the dark side of Jupiter men.

His drama Chicago Typewriter features him reincarnating in present day Korea after initially living in the 1930s.

Jupiter influence is visible in movies/shows that have tropes of alternate reality, reincarnation, time travel etc.

#sidereal astrology #vedic astro notes #astrology observations #vedic astrology #astro observations #astrology notes #nakshatras #astro notes #astroblr #astrology #jupiter #punarvasu #vishaka #purva bhadrapada #korean actos #kpop astrology

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nestadevries · 18 days ago

Text

Chapter 19 | The Leash of Love

Notes: Aes Sedai's drama, smut, and comfort. - around 6k words

The Tower’s grand hall was heavy with tension and whispers. Morning light streamed through the tall windows, but even the sun couldn't warm the undercurrent of unease. Something dark was stirring, whispered rumors of Sisters disappearing, of oaths broken in secret halls, though no one dared speak the words aloud.

The Sitters sat arrayed in a great circle, each Ajah's colors displayed proudly. Liandrin was among them, seated stiffly, the crimson of the Red Ajah, a bold slash against the muted grays of the stone chamber. Her dress was a striking deep red, threaded with thin black lines that coiled like subtle vines along the sleeves. The design both elegant and menacing, if one looked closely.

Her golden hair was gathered into a high, intricate twist atop her head, not a strand out of place, emphasizing the proud, severe line of her neck and jaw. Beneath the sweeping folds of her dress, she wore boots with the highest heels she owned, the soft gleam of black leather catching the light when she shifted.

Liandrin’s face was a portrait of serenity, every expression carefully schooled into stillness, but the set of her shoulders and the faint gleam in her eyes spoke volumes, as if she was ready for war if need be.

At the center of the gathering, Siuan Sanche sat upon the Amyrlin Seat, her stole marking the seven Ajahs draped regally across her shoulders. Her face was carved from stone, revealing nothing of her thoughts, arms resting lightly yet firmly on the carved arms of her throne.

Meanwhile Leane Sedai stood just behind, the Keeper’s staff in hand. Her gaze flicked often to Liandrin, narrowing slightly, as if expecting the Red to erupt into chaos at any moment. And among the Blues, Moiraine Sedai had taken her place once more, newly returned to the Tower. Though she said little, her presence was palpable, a silent endorsement that carried weight even in the charged stillness of the Hall.

At first, the conversation danced carefully around larger political concerns, murmurings of unrest in Cairhien, strange activities reported in the Borderlands. Sisters traded formal remarks about strengthening alliances, and the need for vigilance.

But beneath the formalities and diplomatic smiles, dark whispers clung to the stone walls. A couple of novices simply disappeared between lesson, Sisters who returned from missions changed, hollow-eyed and strange, wards shattered without warning.

No one dared to say the words, not openly, not in this gathering. But the fear was there and it showed in the quick glances. An ancient rot was blooming inside the Tower, and not even the Amyrlin Seat could deny it any longer. And still, no one said it aloud. The true enemy was still unspoken, hidden in careful phrases and tightened smiles. But every woman in the chamber knew that the Tower was under siege. Not from outside, but from within.

It was Serenna Sedai of the Green Ajah who changed the topic of conversation. "And yet, how can we speak of strength and vigilance, when some among us confuse their duties with personal indulgence?" She said, rising gracefully to her feet, the green fringe of her shawl shimmering.

The air sharpened immediately, snapping from muted discussion into something far more dangerous.

"You speak boldly, Sister." Alanna said coolly from the Greens, rising as well, "But you have yet to name the crime."

Serenna smiled, a thin, brittle thing that never touched her eyes. "I speak of Sister Liandrin and the girl she has entangled herself with."

Several Sisters stirred at that. A ripple of discomfort passed through the chamber.

"You’ve blurred the lines between mentor and mistress, Liandrin." Serenna continued, voice tightening. "The Tower will not tolerate such indulgence. Such possessiveness threatens the very balance we swear to uphold."

Liandrin’s fingers tapped against her knee. A barely noticeable crack in her stillness, but for those who watched closely, it was enough. Inside her chest, fear lanced through the anger. Not fear for herself, that had been burned out of her long ago, but fear for Nesta. If the Hall turned against them, if they decided Nesta needed to be punished for her own choices, they would not hesitate. They would strip her down, break her spirit, and chain her to their will. It was what the Tower always did to those it couldn't control. And Liandrin knew it, because once, they had tried to do the same to her.

She forced her fingers to still. Her face remained unreadable, the careful mask she had worn for years in the Tower. Beautiful, composed, and untouchable, but beneath her outer shell, a single thought burned, They will not take her from me.

They could strip her of titles, strip her of honor, even strip her of power and still she would not yield Nesta to them. She was the only thing that mattered to her now. Not rank, not tradition, and not the Tower’s empty approval. Only the girl, who had looked at her not with fear, but with love.

"It is corruption. Power used to bind, not to guide. How long until others follow her example, tearing the Tower into pieces over personal loyalties?" Alanna said sharply, anger flashing in her voice.

Tension crackled through the air, and when Alanna straightened in fury, Moiraine nodded with approval, a silent message of solidarity for support.

Siuan, seated upon the Amyrlin’s throne at the center of the hall, said nothing. Her silence wasn't neutrality. It was a blade held carefully in reserve, poised and waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

"You think yourself above the Tower?" Leane accused, her voice rising an octave, shrill against the stone walls.

Liandrin rose then, unfolding from her chair like a predator stalking forward into the open. Every motion was precise, controlled, the movement of a woman who knew exactly how dangerous she had become.

"No, I simply speak as someone who was the only one to keep her safe." Liandrin said.

Her eyes, glacial and furious swept the circle of Sitters, daring them to meet her gaze. "When others treated her like a weapon to be hidden away. When others would have gladly broken her because she didn't fit neatly into their mold, I was the only one who taught her and took care of her."

For a long heartbeat, no one breathed. Some faces turned away in shame. While others stiffened, brittle with resentment.

"You mistake your affection for authority, she is not yours to claim." Serenna snapped.

Liandrin smiled slowly. That kind of smile that promised ruin. "I will not apologize for protecting what is mine." she claimed.

A gasp broke from one of the Sisters, the circle fractured into sudden noise of accusations and protests. Sharp warnings shouted half over one another, but Liandrin heard none of it. She only turned on her heel and stalked from the hall, the sharp click of her boots echoed like a challenge through the stunned silence she left behind. But no one moved to stop her.

Her heart still beat with cold fury, but beneath the surface, a storm was brewing. The Tower's judgment was coming, she knew it. They would try to tear her down, break her apart, force her to bend. But it wasn’t just her position in the Tower she was defending. It wasn’t even the angry accusations thrown at her, but the radiant, stubborn woman who had somehow burrowed herself into her heart.

What had she just done?

She had made herself vulnerable. She had exposed a part of herself that she hadn’t even realized she was capable of.

Nesta stirred, half-asleep, the heavy scent of sweetbread and roasted meat still clinging to her senses. She hadn’t meant to doze off on Liandrin’s bed this afternoon, but the Tower was stifling after lunch.

Her breathing slowed, and when she opened her eyes, she stood on a polished marble platform, surrounded by endless ocean. The sky stretched above her in bright shades of azure, dotted with wisps of clouds that glowed faintly in the light and the air was warm against her skin. Somewhere distant, waves broke against unseen rocks with a rhythmic hum.

Nesta stood in the center of it all, the soft breeze tugging at the edges of her red dress. It floated around her like a summer breeze. Light, silky fabric draped along her body, with a daring slit that revealed her leg with every step, graceful and bold. The neckline plunged into a deep V, baring her chest and collarbones to the warm air. Thin, delicate straps rested on her shoulders, giving the dress an effortless, almost wild elegance, as if she were born to command the sea around her.

A sudden breeze stirred, tugging at the hem of Nesta’s dress, pulling her gaze to the side. She turned and there stood Lanfear. But this was not the Lanfear she had grown used to, not the cold, cutting, invincible force she had come to expect. This Lanfear wore no armor of silver or cruelty. She was dressed simply in a flowing gown the color of moonlight, her hair unbound and stirring in the salt-kissed breeze.

For a long moment, they only looked at each other.

“You dream of battlefields, but you dream of peace, too.”

Nesta swallowed, “Maybe I dream of a world that doesn’t hate what it doesn’t understand.” she said quietly.

“They always hated women like us.” Lanfear said, her gaze distant. “Women who wanted more.”

She stepped closer, and the dream shifted with her. The ocean’s hush grew louder, the marble beneath them warmed to the touch. Her presence pulled at the very fabric of the dream, bending it toward her, as always.

“I asked for everything.” she continued. “Knowledge, power, love. I wanted the world itself, and they called me unnatural for it. They smiled to my face and plotted behind my back. Even he...” her throat bobbed in a swallow, “Even he feared what I could become.”

Nesta took a small, instinctive step forward, her dress whispering around her legs.

“You wanted so much.” Nesta said, but there was no judgment in her voice, only understanding. “And they wanted you small.”

Lanfear’s hand lifted slowly, almost like she didn’t realize she was moving, fingers reaching toward Nesta’s hair. But at the last second, she pulled away. Her hand curled into a fist at her side, as if the act of reaching had cost her something unbearable.

“You think I want to use you, Nesta? You’re wrong.” Lanfear said, bitter and soft at once. “I want to keep you. And that is far more dangerous.”

Nesta’s heart twisted painfully, her defenses crumbling like sand. "You don't know what you want, Lanfear."

“You’d kneel for her, wouldn’t you?” The Forsaken stated, and there was no mockery in it now, only jealousy so sharp Nesta could almost feel the wound it left behind. “You’d give her everything. Yet I offer you eternity, and still, you hesitate.”

"I can't give you what you want." She answered firmly, though her heart twisted. "I’m hers and I will never betray that." Nesta paused, then added quietly, "But I feel your pain."

For a heartbeat, Lanfear simply watched the girl, her expression tinged with sadness, as if something inside her was quietly breaking. The air shifted, and with a subtle movement of her hand, she seemed to dissolve into the dream itself, her edges softening like the last wisps of a fading storm. In a voice so soft the wind nearly stole it away, she murmured, “She doesn’t deserve you.”

The pain in Lanfear’s voice was something Nesta hadn’t expected. She stood frozen, heart pounding in her chest, unable to look away as Lanfear was slowly fading away. She felt torn, as if caught between two worlds, two desires. But her loyalty to Liandrin remained unshaken, no matter how vulnerable Lanfear seemed in that moment.

The look in the Forsaken’s eyes, as she faded into the dream, was not the look of a conqueror, or a monster. It was the look of a woman who had once loved too much, and had been broken for it.

The afternoon sunlight poured through the trees, casting dappled shadows across the well-kept garden. The scent of blooming flowers lingered in the air, and the soft murmur of the fountain added to the serenity of the place.

As Nesta passed near the hedges, she caught the faint rustle of voices, two Aes Sedai standing just a little ahead. They thought she didn’t hear, or perhaps they wanted her to.

“Did you hear what Liandrin said? That girl is hers. Hers. In front of the Sitters, no less.” The first voice was full of surprise.

Nesta paused, curiosity stirring within her. She kept her distance, hiding just out of view as she listened, her heart oddly calm.

“I always thought the rumors were exaggerated, but Light, she didn’t even deny it.” the second Aes Sedai replied.

Nesta stood frozen, her breath catching. She felt no anger, no embarrassment at being the subject of their whispers. Only a strange mix of love for Liandrin, and a flicker of fear for what such a bold declaration might mean. The world was watching, and Liandrin had chosen to make her claim public. It could be a sign of her confidence, but it could also draw unwanted attention.

She lingered for a moment longer before quietly stepping away, unsure of what to make of the whispered words that still echoed in her mind.

The door to Liandrin’s chambers creaked as Nesta pushed it open, the faint scent of ink and parchment greeting her as she stepped inside. The room was dim, the light from the narrow windows casting shadows on the walls. Liandrin sat at her desk, the faint rustle of parchment the only sound as she leafed through something, her brow furrowed in concentration.

Nesta paused at the door, watching the way the candlelight flickered against the sharp angles of Liandrin’s face, highlighting the calm intensity that seemed to be present in her. She was perfectly still, absorbed in her task.

But as soon as the door closed behind her, Liandrin’s head lifted, her piercing gaze meeting Nesta’s. “You’re late.” she said, her voice cool, though the edge of amusement was there. She set the papers down on the desk with a slow motion, then folded her hands neatly in front of her.

Nesta took a step forward, her emotions already rising from the conversation she’d heard in the garden. She could feel the weight of the rumors still hanging in the air, the whispers that seemed to follow her every step, yet here was Liandrin, cool and composed as if nothing had happened. As if the whole Tower hadn’t erupted in speculation because of her actions.

“You want the Hall to throw you out?” Nesta’s voice was sharp, cutting through the air. “Or maybe you’re just hoping to piss off every Sister in the Tower at once?”

Liandrin didn’t flinch, her posture remaining unchanged. She simply looked at Nesta, her eyes bright and steady, like she was waiting for something more. “You heard." she said, her voice a low, unflinching acknowledgment.

Nesta couldn’t hold back the bitter laugh that slipped from her lips. She started pacing the room, every step a release of the emotions that were too chaotic to contain. “Oh, I heard. Everyone has. The whole Tower practically turned into a betting ring about whether I’d show up with a leash next.” She chuckled darkly, the sound devoid of humor. "You claimed me publicly. Aes Sedai don’t claim anyone.”

Liandrin’s expression remained calm, her eyes narrowing slightly, but there was no trace of apology. She rose slowly from her chair, every movement measured, as if to emphasize the difference between her coolness and Nesta’s visible agitation.

“I won’t apologize for loving you.” She walked toward Nesta with confidence. “Let them choke on their rules.”

Nesta stopped in her tracks, the breath catching in her chest as she turned to face her fully. “You’re something else.” She said, half-laughing, but there was no humor in it, only frustration. “Sharp cheeks and declarations like a woman straight out of a romance story. No wonder they think you’ve got me leashed.”

Liandrin smirked, a dangerous glint in her eyes as she moved closer. “Do you want to be?” she whispered, voice rough and possessive. “Because you only need to ask.”

Nesta tilted her chin up, a spark of mischief flickering in her eyes even as her pulse drummed wild in her veins. "Try me." she said, voice almost mocking, daring, as if she wasn't already halfway undone just by the way Liandrin was looking at her.

The Aes Sedai said nothing. She merely smiled and turned away without hurry, as if she had all the time in the world.

Nesta heard the soft whisper of a drawer opening and when Liandrin turned back, leather coiled in her fingers. The black collar gleamed and a single silver ring adorned the front. The leash trailed from it, glinting like a line between hunter and prey.

"Strip, Lioness." Liandrin commanded.

Nesta’s hands moved before she could think. Piece by piece, she shed her clothing, letting it fall silently to the floor, until she stood bared to Liandrin's eyes, proud and unashamed.

Liandrin drank in the sight of her, her blue eyes darkening with fire. "Now kneel."

With a slow motion, Nesta sank to her knees before her. The carpet was soft beneath her, the air cool against her flushed skin. She knelt proud and unbowed, her hands resting lightly on her thighs, her head held high. There was no shame in her, only choice and desire

The woman's gaze burned into her. She moved closer, so close that the heat of her body wrapped around Nesta like a cloak. "Good girl." she said, almost a purr. Her fingers brushed Nesta’s jaw, tilting her face up.

Like a predator, she moved around Nesta, circling the girl, like savoring its prize. The leash, still slack in her hand, trailed deliberately over Nesta’s bare shoulders, across her back, making her shiver at the teasing weight of it.

"You kneel so beautifully." Liandrin murmured from behind. "Not because I forced you but because you belong to me." The soft leather brushed the nape of Nesta’s neck.

The collar closed around her throat with a muted click of the silver buckle. Tight, but not cruel. The pressure of it settled heavily on Nesta's skin. And Liandrin stood before her again, holding the leash loosely between two fingers, letting it swing lazily back and forth, brushing Nesta’s chest in hypnotic arcs.

"You feel it, don’t you?" She whispered. "This pull between us is unbreakable."

Liandrin gave the leash a small tug, just enough to tilt Nesta’s chin up higher, forcing her blue eyes to meet Liandrin’s. "So proud. So mine." she crooned, possessive heat flashing in her own eyes.

Another tug, firmer this time, forced Nesta to rise from her knees, stumbling into Liandrin’s arms. The woman caught her, the leash coiling around her wrist like a binding promise.

"You’ll take everything I give you, won’t you?" Liandrin murmured against her ear, letting the leash wind tighter, wrapping once, twice, around her fist.

She pulled Nesta forward by it, forcing her to walk the short distance to the desk. When they reached it, Liandrin kept the leash taut, ordering Nesta in place. "Hands flat."

Nesta obeyed, heart pounding as her palms met the cool wood. The leather around her throat creaked faintly as Liandrin tugged again, forcing her to bend lower.

She leaned over her, hot breath against Nesta’s ear. "You're going to stay exactly where I put you." she whispered.

She slid one hand between Nesta’s thighs, teasing slow strokes along her inner legs, while the leash stayed taut in her other hand, a constant reminder of who controlled the girl’s body now.

Nesta’s back arched as Liandrin’s chest pressed firmly against her, the hard edge of the desk digging into her hips. The leash attached to her collar pulled taut, forcing her head back, exposing the pale column of her throat.

Liandrin’s breath was hot against her ear, a mocking hum of satisfaction as her fingers circled, teasing, before finally pushing inside. Nesta whimpered, her fingers scrambling against the polished wood. The stretch was slow, each inch claimed with ruthless precision.

“Such pretty noises.” Liandrin purred, her voice dripping with cruel amusement. Her fingers curled, dragging another choked gasp from Nesta’s lips.

The girl’s thighs trembled, her body caught between the unforgiving press of the desk and Liandrin’s relentless touch. The leash jerked again, a sharp reminder of who owned this moment. Her breath hitched as Liandrin’s pace quickened.

“You clench around me so well, pet.” she hissed, her teeth grazing the shell of Nesta’s ear. “Is this all it takes to break you? Just my fingers and a leash?”

Nesta’s vision blurred, pleasure and defiance warring as she bit back another sound, but the leash yanked once more, and this time, she couldn’t stop the broken moan that escaped. Her hips rocked back instinctively, seeking more.

Liandrin laughed, dark and victorious, and added a third finger, stretching her obscenely. “Oh, you want it rough, don’t you?” She twisted her wrist, curling her fingers deeper, and Nesta nearly sobbed as pleasure spiked through her.

She whimpered against the desk, her nails dragging faint lines over the polished wood, but the leash remained taut in Liandrin’s hand, a constant reminder that she wasn’t free to move unless Liandrin allowed it.

“Good girl.” Liandrin murmured, her voice a dark purr.

Her fingers fucked Nesta's cunt relentlessly, the stretch bordering on pain. The girl's body felt completely trapped and the leash coiled tighter around Liandrin’s wrist now, binding them together as surely as any weave of the Power.

She gave another possessive pull, forcing Nesta to arch her back, to bare herself even more. "You're mine." she said again, harsher now.

“Yours.” Nesta gasped, her voice hoarse and cracking with sweet truth.

Liandrin rewarded her with a rough, brutal thrust of her fingers, the heel of her hand grinding against the swollen clit, and Nesta cried out.

"That's my girl." Liandrin murmured, possessive and proud.

Nesta’s vision whited out as Liandrin fucked her harder, the desk creaking under their combined weight. The collar bit into her throat with every jerk of the leash, every snap of Liandrin’s hips against her. And she shattered, the orgasm tearing through her with a violence that made her legs buckle. She collapse helplessly against the desk. And still Liandrin held the leash tight, refusing to let her fall completely, keeping her bound.

Only when Nesta’s trembling body finally went limp, Liandrin eased the tension. The polished wood was cool against the girl's flushed skin. Her whole world narrowed to the frantic beat of her heart and the lingering echoes of Liandrin’s touch.

Above her, Liandrin gathered her slowly against her chest, piece by piece, lifting up with a tenderness that was no less possessive for its gentleness. A hand slid under Nesta’s chin, lifting her face. "You are so pretty now." She whispered, dragging the pads of her fingers over the jaw.

Their eyes met, Nesta’s pupils were blown wide, her gaze glassy and dazed, lips parted around shallow gasps. A breathtaking portrait of surrender and stubborn pride tangled together. While Liandrin’s eyes, in contrast, were dark and burning with a possessive affection.

Nesta sagged into her, letting herself be held, breathing in her lover's scent. The leash brushed against her bare skin as Liandrin unwound it from her wrist. The tension snapped free, but she stayed perfectly still, head bowed, throat exposed, her pride wrapped tight around her submission.

Liandrin’s hand rose, brushing aside blonde hair, fingers trailing along the line of the leather collar. Without a word, she found the buckle and unfastened it and the collar slid away. Beneath it gleamed the choker, Liandrin’s gift. "This is all you need, Lioness." A soft whisper as her thumb stroked the crimson stones.

Her other hand gently slid down Nesta’s back as she guided her toward the bed. With each step, she pulled the girl closer. As they reached the edge of it, Liandrin leaned in, her lips tracing a path across Nesta’s throat, pressing a soft kiss against the hollow where the choker clung tightly to her skin. It was a kiss of ownership, of love, a subtle claim that only deepened the connection between them.

Nesta’s breath hitched as she felt the warm press of Liandrin’s lips, and her body swayed slightly, her head falling back with a soft moan.

"I never thought I’d let anyone bend me like that." Nesta murmured, voice teasing but laced with admiration. "Especially not with a leash and a collar."

Liandrin’s lips quirked into a smile. "I think you rather enjoyed it." she replied, as she continued guiding Nesta down onto the bed.

Nesta laughed softly, her fingers curling into the sheets as she settled back. "Maybe I did, Lia." she admitted, a playful smirk tugging at her lips. She glanced up at Liandrin with a mix of curiosity and desire. "You have a way of pushing me to places I didn’t know I could go."

Liandrin’s smile only deepened, "Stay here now." she murmured. A command, but also a plea. She stepped back, her gaze heavy and possessive as she stripped herself bare. Shedding her robes piece by piece. The fabric pooled around her ankles, until she stood naked, her skin pale and powerful.

Nesta couldn’t look away. Her heart raced, a mixture of love and admiration swelling inside her. Liandrin’s body bore the faint lines of old battles, and she wore them proudly. Each scar told a story of victory or pain that she endured and overcome.

Her eyes lingered on Liandrin’s body. She saw the scars not as flaws, but as symbols of the woman’s history, her power, her beauty. It was impossible to look away from the way her muscles shifted as she moved, the soft curve of her waist leading to the strength of her legs.

Gently, Liandrin crawled onto the bed with grace of a hunter who already owned the kill. She caught Nesta by the waist, dragging her up the bed and pressing her down into the sheets.

The woman’s mouth found her shoulder first, sinking her teeth into the soft flesh with a low growl that was more possession than seduction. Nesta gasped, her hands clutching the blankets beneath her, as Liandrin bit and kissed a claiming path across her skin. Her shoulder, her throat, her breast.

"You have no idea what you do to me." Liandrin murmured

Nesta whimpered, her back arching, offering more, giving more.

"You let me have you, you kneel for me..." Liandrin continued, “And still you shine so brightly, my love."

The girl couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but clutch at Liandrin’s shoulders as her mouth moved lower, worshipping, devouring, owning every inch she touched.

"You are all mine." Liandrin said again, biting at the soft underside of Nesta’s breast.

"I love you." She gasped.

Liandrin’s teeth scraped over a peaked nipple, her tongue soothing the sting, and Nesta cried out.

Finally she slid lower, dragging her tongue along the trembling lines of Nesta’s stomach. She mouthed at the tender skin of inner thighs, nipping, kissing, marking. And Nesta sobbed brokenly, her hands fisting in the sheets, her body alight and writhing under the touch.

When the woman’s mouth finally found the slick heat between Nesta’s thighs, the first drag of her tongue shattered the last fragile pieces of the girl’s pride, leaving only need and belonging.

"Lia..." Nesta moaned, desperate and wrecked.

"Shh, Lioness." Liandrin murmured against her, the vibration making Nesta’s hips jolt.

"I’ll take care of you." she promised, before sealing her mouth over clit. Her tongue slid through the heat with deliberate slowness, as if she were savoring every inch of her.

Nesta’s breath caught, a trembling moan leaving her lips. She wanted to move, wanted to press closer, but Liandrin’s hands kept her still, holding her in place with the gentleness of a lover, but the authority of a queen. Every touch was measured, each movement calculated. Not rough, but firm, a quiet command in every stroke.

Liandrin’s mouth continued its teasing journey, never rushing, never giving too much. Just when Nesta thought she couldn’t stand it, when the hunger inside her became unbearable, Liandrin would pull back, leaving her breathless, her body aching with desire.

"Patience, pet." Liandrin whispered, the words a soft but clear order, laced with a hint of praise. "You’re mine to take. And I’ll take my time."

Nesta whimpered softly, her body arching towards her. She wanted to beg, to plead, but she bit her lip instead, the pleasure mingling with the frustration of being so close and yet denied. Liandrin’s fingers gently slid between her thighs, teasing the edge of her slickness without pressing deeper.

"You’re perfect." Liandrin murmured, her lips tracing the curve of Nesta’s hip.

Her hand moved to Nesta’s waist, grip light but firm, and she guided Nesta’s hips closer to her mouth, encouraging her to surrender to the touch. But still, she took her time. She didn’t rush, not when she could feel the tension, the need in each movement. Liandrin enjoyed the control, the slow unraveling of her lover, piece by piece.

Nesta’s breath came faster now, her chest rising and falling with the effort to hold herself together. "Please, Lia." she finally whispered, the word escaping in a shaky breath.

Liandrin smiled softly, her eyes filled with warmth that only added to the power she held over her. "I’ll take you when I want." she whispered, her voice laced with that same possessive affection.

With a soft, reverent kiss, Liandrin returned to her task, but this time she didn’t hesitate. Her tongue slid deeper, making Nesta gasp, her hips lifting into the touch instinctively. But Liandrin’s hands pressed her down gently, holding her steady.

"I told you, don’t move." She murmured against her.

Nesta’s breath hitched, her body trembling with desire, but she held still, desperate for more, to give herself entirely to Liandrin’s consuming power.

The woman’s mouth was warm and soft, moving with the rhythm of a lover who knew exactly how to tease and please without breaking. The tension inside Nesta grew, coiling tighter, but still, Liandrin didn’t relent. She was in control, and she held that control with a gentleness that felt like a vice around Nesta’s chest.

When she finally allowed her to come, the release was overwhelming. It washed over Nesta like a wave, her body shaking with pleasure that was drawn out, gentle and sweetly agonizing.

But even as Nesta collapsed back onto the bed, her body limp and exhausted, Liandrin’s hands remained steady, holding her close. Her fingers traced patterns along her skin, reminding her that she was hers. "My Lioness." She murmured, her voice still tender, but now filled with the satisfaction of having claimed every part of Nesta.

She stayed atop of her, their legs tangled together as if they were made to fit this way. Nesta leaned forward, their lips met in a searing kiss, tongues sliding together. Liandrin moaned into the girl's mouth, the sound vibrating between them as Nesta’s teeth grazed her lower lip, tugging just enough to make her gasp.

“I love you so much.” Nesta murmured against her lips, voice rough with desire. One hand slid down, fingers brushing over the curve of Liandrin’s ass before slipping between her thighs.

The older woman shuddered, her breath hitching as Nesta’s fingertips traced her slick folds, teasing but not yet giving her what she truly wanted. “Nesta, don’t tease.” she whined, hips rolling, seeking more friction.

With a slow stroke, Nesta slid two fingers inside her, relishing the way her body clenched around them, hot and tight. A broken moan spilled from Liandrin’s lips, and Nesta swallowed the sound with another deep kiss, their tongues tangling as she began to fuck her in relentless thrusts.

Liandrin’s hips rocked against her hand, chasing every movement, every delicious curl of Nesta’s fingers. The wet sounds between them only fueled the fire, and Nesta added a third finger, stretching her just enough to make her cry out. Her moans grew louder, each breathy gasp escaping her lips as pleasure coiled deep within her. Her body trembled, muscles taut with anticipation, every nerve alight with sensation.

The girl's thumb found her clit with unerring precision, rubbing firm circles. She crooked her fingers inside her, pressing against sweet, hidden spot that made Liandrin’s thighs quiver.

The pleasure was overwhelming, and Liandrin came with a sharp cry. Wave after wave of ecstasy leaving her gasping. Nesta kissed her through it, her lips soft yet demanding, swallowing every whimper that spilled from the her mouth.

Nesta’s fingers never stilled, drawing out the pleasure until the last tremors had Liandrin’s body humming with satisfaction. She held her close, their foreheads resting together as Liandrin floated back down. The air between them was thick with the scent of sweat and Liandrin’s eyelids fluttered shut. A smile curved her lips as she melted into Nesta’s embrace.

Liandrin’s head rested gently on her lover's chest, her breath slow and steady, but her fingers still played with the edge of the blanket, as if she couldn’t quite settle.

Nesta’s hand, now absent of tension, traced lazy circles across Liandrin’s back. There was something deeply comforting about the way Liandrin’s body fit perfectly against hers. “You’re quiet.” She said softly. “What’s on your mind?”

Liandrin’s fingers paused, and for a long while, she didn’t answer. Nesta could feel her lover’s breath deepen, and she knew that Liandrin was considering something she rarely shared. Finally, she spoke, her voice low, laced with a tenderness that was reserved only for moments like this.

“I was thinking about how I’ve always had to be strong.” Liandrin murmured. She turned her head to look up at Nesta. Her blue eyes were haunted, but there was a softness too. “But with you, I don’t need to be that ruthless person all the time.”

“I never saw you as ruthless.” Nesta said, her voice quiet but firm.

Liandrin smiled, but it wasn’t the usual cold smile she often wore. It was soft and a little sad. She shifted so that she was half-lying on Nesta’s chest, her face turned so that her cheek rested against the skin of collarbone. “I spent so many years believing that I had to fight alone, that no one could be trusted to stand with me.” she whispered, her hand came up, fingers brushing against Nesta’s jaw.

“And then I found you, who makes me feel safe and loved.” she continued, “Like I’m not just the woman everyone fears. Like I can be something else with you.”

“Something else? What exactly do you mean?”

Liandrin chuckled softly, her hand sliding down to rest over Nesta’s heart. “Not the monster they all think I am. But just me, just your Lia.”

“You’re not a monster.” Nesta replied, her voice steady but laced with affection. “And you don’t have to be anything but yourself when you’re with me.”

Liandrin tilted her head up, “Thank you, Nesta.”

“You’re everything I need.” Nesta’s lips softened, and she leaned down to press a gentle kiss.

She could feel the tension that still coiled beneath Liandrin’s skin. She didn’t need words to understand it, because recognized it. Deep down, she had carried that same armor herself. The way Liandrin resisted soft things, as though they might turn to knives if she let her guard drop. The way strength had become a language of necessity, not choice.

But she also saw what lay beneath it all. The loneliness, the ache of someone who had learned to be feared because being understood had never felt like an option. It was a reflection of her own pain, cast in a different shade.

#liandrin guirale #wheel of time #lanfear #liandrin guirale x reader #kate fleetwood #lanfear x reader #natasha o'keeffe #liandrin sedai

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